


Hanging Out At The Beach

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: M/M, multifandomkinkmeme on dreamwidth, nudist beach, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-19 23:57:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18981004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: Blair and Jim at a nudist beach, through the eyes of an appreciative observer.





	Hanging Out At The Beach

**Author's Note:**

> written for this prompt on dreamwidth's multifandom kink meme:
> 
> Public nudity, voyeurism, outsider POV  
>  _Blair takes Jim to a nudist beach. They are much admired by everyone, particularly the narrator._

So I'm not really a member of the Freedom of Nature society or whatever it is and I shouldn't be here. That's okay; more than half of the people hanging out on this beach today shouldn't be here either, not if they have mirrors at home and ever look in them.

Hey -- 'hanging out' -- that's a good one. I'd poke myself in the ribs if I didn't have sand stuck to my elbow. 

Which is because it's _hot_ out here. I figured it would be cooler without clothes, but just like my fantasy of a beach packed with enough beautiful bronzed bare bodies to keep me and my Magic Wand in business even during the longest personal-record dry spell I might ever have to go through, I was wrong. Dimmest bulb in the chanticleer, like my aunt Helene always says.

It's not like I even like the beach, you know? Ocean water gives me hives, and now I'm all sweaty and covered with sand, and bored. Oh, there's some skin on show that's worth looking at at least once, so it's not a total waste of time. But most of the best-looking people are of the female pervasion and that's not what I'm here for.

Guys. I want guys.

Built, buff, gorgeous guys. That shouldn't be too much to ask for at a nudist beach, should it? But apparently it is. Everywhere I turn I see guys who've let themselves go or guys who never had anything worth worrying about letting go in the first place.

Enough's enough. Or not enough, to be honest about it, even if that blond guy sitting next to the big Igloo cooler would work in a pinch. He's no movie star, though. Which is kind of Byronic, since I'm only here because I've used up all my movie star fantasies -- worn them all out, which I didn't know you could do with a fantasy but it turns out you can. My Magic Wand still does its magic, but a girl likes a little build-up, you know?

Still, enough of the flab and the droopy boobs and droopy cheeks making my eyeballs cross and enough of the sand sticking to me everywhere. Time to go home, make myself a frozen margarita, and forget this not so bright idea of mine ever happened. Go back to Brad Pitt, I guess. I confess I used to like Mel, but he isn't getting better, he's getting older, so it's just Brad and George Clooney for me.

Anyway, I'm standing up and trying to brush sand off places it doesn't have any business being, ready to pack up my towel and my first and last attempt to pass myself off as part of the Born Free, Live Free, and Jiggle Free naked beach crowd, when _they_ show up.

 _Guys._ I mean _real_ guys. Okay, the shorter one's not as buff as the other guy, and he's, well, _shorter,_ but the big guy --

I sit back down on my towel, hard. Oh. My. God. This has got to be what God made nudist beaches for in the first place -- the _only_ reason, as far as I can tell. The big guy's got muscles to die for and they're all oiled and everything, which I guess is his sunscreen and maybe a little sweat, and me and my Magic Wand aren't going to have any trouble at all the next time I plug the Wand in and get personal with myself.

The big buff guy isn't looking at me, he's looking at the short guy, saying something to him I'm too far away to hear -- something that from the expression on Buff Guy's face is probably "I can't believe I let you talk me into this" -- so I take the opportunity to check out his personal area of personal relations. Not that he could see what my eyes are drooling over, of course, not with my sunglasses running underference, but modesty's a virtue, at least according to my Aunt Martha, the old bat.

So I look, and I get that nice squirmy not-virtuous feeling down below. _Really_ squirmy.

It's not really true that if you've seen one guy's... you know, you've seen them all, you know. Not that I've seen as many as Aunt Martha thinks I have, just Roger and Carlos and Wilbert and the guy who worked on my car once for free, but I have to admit that even with the flagpole only halfway raised Big Buff Guy looks like his pole is just about as big and buff as the rest of him, and I have to bite down on the inside of my lip a little.

The squirmy feeling isn't just about his that, though. It's the whole package -- his thighs look like rocks, and his arms are making me think about the only kind of push-ups I've ever wanted anything to do with, the kind I like to be admiring from underneath, not the kind we used to have to do in high school gym class.

The rest of the package is working just fine too. I've got good eyes, and even from over here I can see he's got what they call bedroom eyes, eyes that could give even George a run for his money, and a smile --

Ohmigod, what a smile! The first time I looked at his face he was looking a little put-upon, but now he's smiling -- first at Short Guy, then off across the beach down towards the water -- like he's got just the right amount of devil in him to make a girl go weak in the knees, and I'm torn between staring at his eyes or at his smile or at his muscles or --

I guess I stare a little too long, because he looks right at me.

Oh my _God._ The smile he gives me isn't so much devil as it is the kind of smile that's polite around the edges and mostly means What are _you_ looking at, so I pretend I wasn't even noticing him and I look at his friend instead, the short guy.

So. You know, he's not bad himself, the short guy, as long as you don't mind short. He's in pretty decent shape even if he doesn't have muscles on his muscles, and he's got long hair pulled back in a ponytail, which kind of makes me think of Brad Pitt's hair in Legends of the Fall, so that's a plus. A minus is all the hair he's got on his chest, but he isn't too hairy anywhere else and on him the hair on his chest doesn't look as bad as it looks on a lot of other guys, so it sort of evens out.

He turns a little, talking to Big Buff Guy, and I get a better look at him. He's got nothing to be ashamed of down there -- which isn't what Aunt Martha would say, my aunt who's always talking about virtue -- but my eyes pretty much stop dead when they get a good look at his face. There isn't any other word for Short Guy's face but break a girl's heart beautiful, and it's enough to make me think maybe I've got _two_ new guest stars for my Magic Wand shows.

Then it hits me. Most guys don't think I'm a dog or anything. I get whistled at, and I know Vinnie at the Greek place on Eighth Street is working up to ask me out one of these days, and why am I spending half my life on the StairMaster at Curves if not for something like these two guys on this beach? Maybe I don't have to settle for fantasies; maybe Muscle Man or his friend would like to take a girl like me out. I'm fun, everybody says so. I stand up again and roll up my towel, planning it out. Maybe I should walk right up to them like I'm not paying any attention where I'm going and stumble a little just as I get there, so Muscle Man has a chance to wrap his big buff arms around me to keep me from falling? 

I like that plan a lot.

Or maybe I should just walk right up to them and say hi. Nice and simple, and I don't have to try to stumble surrealistically, which might be safer, since like my Aunt Helene says, I was born with three left feet.

Or maybe --

Or maybe Aunt Helene's right again about me and the chanticleer, not just about my feet. Muscle Man just said something to Short Guy and Short Guy lit up like Christmas just got here, and now Muscle Man is smiling back at him. And even a dim bulb like me can't miss it. That's a movie star quality bedroom smile if I ever saw one, a smile that goes perfect with those bedroom eyes. And the way those two are looking at each other they're wishing nature could get busy right _now_ on this -- what did the brochure call it, naturist's? -- beach, even if my Aunt Martha would say what they're wishing isn't natural at all.

It figures. It just figures. All the really good ones are either taken or gay or both. That's what my Aunt Jackie says, and she's almost always right.

I sigh and brush the sand off myself. Then I look at the guys again, sort of because I can't help myself, and they're laughing about something and the big guy's muscles are moving under all that smooth sunscreen-oily gorgeous skin as he laughs, and you know what? I think I'll give Plan A a shot anyway. It looks like it won't get me a date, but if I manage to stumble just right I might get those arms holding me close for a moment. I can work with that. Me and my Magic Wand can work with that just fine; after all, it wasn't like George or Brad ever had their arms around me or were ever standing without any clothes on right next to me completely naked or anything.

So I start walking towards the guys. _Plan A._ Even us dim bulbs have our moments, you know.


End file.
